A Master of Djinn: 1 (Dead Djinn Universe)

by P. Djèlí Clark

  Fatma sighed inwardly, hating to admit the woman was right. She had an aunt who suffered a mental illness. Nothing remotely dangerous about her at all. And Fatma hated when anyone called her things like “crazy” or “insane.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I take that back. You knew exactly what you were doing. That you were going to hurt a lot of people. And you did it anyway. Willfully. There’s nothing wrong with your head. You’re just a monster.”

  “Why, thank you, agent,” Abigail said sweetly. “That really means a lot to me. You know, I do think if not for all this unpleasantness between us, we could have been friends.”

  That actually made Fatma laugh.

  “No, really. I do mean it. We’re alike in a way.”

  “I’m not like you.”

  “Oh, I disagree. Do you know how delightful it was to match wits with you? I could have had you killed so many times—run you through with my blade, had you incinerated by my Ifrit, set a pack of ghuls to tear you apart. But I kept you alive, and you know why? Because I see something of myself in you. A woman forced to live in a world run by inept men. So much drive and determination. In a way, we share a bond. My dusky sister of the Orient.”

  “You can be quiet now,” Fatma suggested.

  “Of course, some bonds are closer than others. Like yours with the half-djinn.”

  Fatma stiffened. She’d been listening close to Siti’s breaths. They hadn’t grown any stronger. “Don’t talk about her.”

  “That night,” Abigail carried on, “when I took control, I caught glimpses of her secrets. The two of you. So, so very close. When she wrapped her hands around your neck, what that must have felt like. Did you understand then what she was? That she carried a beast within? That’s what these djinn are, you know. Beasts. As dangerous as any hound, if not properly muzzled. But once trained, they are oh so useful.”

  Fatma tamped down her anger, refusing to engage. Abigail chuckled at the silence and seemed set to begin her torment anew when another sound came.

  “Be quiet!” Fatma said, listening. Were those voices? Taking a deep breath she shouted out again. Had she imagined them? A second shout made her almost hoarse. Now the voices returned. They were coming closer! She could even make them out.

  “Did you hear, Yakov … from over here I think…”

  Fatma shouted once more, not even words now because that was too hard. Abigail joined her, the two making as much noise as possible—until a blessed voice called down.

  “We hear you! How many?”

  “Three,” Fatma croaked. Praise God!

  “One moment, Frau!” The voices pulled away. She could only make out one. A man. He spoke English, mostly, with a heavy accent. “Achtung! Careful which stone you pick! Nein! Not that one! Better! Come now, lift! Put your back into it, Yakov! Are you a Russian bear or a little yapping dog? That’s it!”

  There was a grating and the debris about Fatma shifted. Bits of rock were pulled from above, and wonderful cool air rushed over her face. She blinked, realizing she was looking up at the night sky through a haze of dust. She could see the palace, half of which still stood amid a field of rubble. Hands reached to haul her up before depositing her again. She was free! Her eyes tried to make out her rescuers, and she found herself staring at an unexpectedly familiar face—a man with a bold nose and a thick upturned moustache.

  “He! Frau!” the German kaiser Wilhelm II grinned. “Yakov, look who it is. From the other night!”

  Fatma shifted to the other man—the Russian general. He stood bent over, panting heavily. Both looked disheveled, in only untucked long shirts and trousers with unslung suspenders.

  “Stay put!” Wilhelm said. “We’ll see to your friends. Yakov!”

  Fatma wanted to tell him first off she wasn’t in any shape to go anywhere. Second, one of the women in the rubble was decidedly not her friend. In fact, maybe they could leave her in there. But she never got the words out, as she was thrown into darkness. There was an accompanying whoosh of wind and an ear-splitting shriek.

  It took a moment to comprehend the darkness was the shadow of something flying high above. A small airship? But it had wings of an absurd length. Not an airship. A rukh!

  The great bird swooped past, in a flurry of blue feathers. It was followed by another, and another. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Four in all. With talons large enough to snatch up an automobile, and hooked golden beaks that could tear apart an elephant. The wind they kicked up buffeted Fatma, clearing some of the dust. She watched as they banked in formation, tilting so that she could make out figures on their backs. Djinn! Riding atop the backs of rukh! Fighting to sit up, she followed their flight into the distance—and gaped.

  Nine Ifrit Lords walked the streets of Cairo.

  They had descended from the heavens—giants that dwarfed even buildings. All about them smaller figures swarmed. More djinn. This was a battle.

  Fatma watched as the rukhs dived into the melee. Marid atop their backs hurled what might have been spears or tridents of lightning that flashed across the black sky. One of the Ifrit Lords sliced a forked glowing blade at them, scattering the formation. A second swung a whip of liquid fire; it cracked through the air, clipping a screeching rukh that trailed smoke in its retreat.

  “Magnificent,” someone murmured. Abigail. They’d gotten her out. She was a mess, her once well-coiffed hair in disarray—not to mention missing a hand. Her eyes were rapt on the battle. “Do you know what I could have wrought with such fine beasts?”

  Fatma was set to tell again her to be quiet, when she saw the two men bearing a still form between them. They laid Siti down, grunting with the effort. Shielding them from the building’s collapse had taken its toll. Crimson gashes marred her skin, and one of her wings bent at an angle. Fatma scrambled over, taking Siti’s head into her hands.

  “Come, Yakov, stop gawking,” Wilhelm chided. “Let us find the healer!”

  Fatma barely watched them go, eyes on Siti, forgetting momentarily even the mayhem about her. All she wanted now was for the woman to wake up. To open her eyes and say something witty. Or wholly inappropriate. Her lips whispering a prayer that came more as a plea. “God the most Beneficent, the most Merciful. Not this one. Not this one.”

  “Remember often death, the destroyer of all pleasures,” a woman’s voice sounded. “But it is not that day for this one.”

  Fatma looked up to find the two men returned, with a woman between them. It took a moment to place her, dressed as she was in a simple black gallabiyah, her face framed by a white hijab.

  “Amina,” she said in surprise.

  “Agent Fatma,” the granddaughter of al-Hajj Umar Tal greeted. “Good to see you alive!”

  “How are you here? Didn’t they evacuate the palace?”

  “Ja.” Wilhelm nodded. “Packed us into carriages. Did not get far before a wave of maddened djinn struck us.”

  “Most of us got out and away,” Amina said, her fingers probing Siti. “We three took shelter nearby. When the palace came down, I convinced them to come back with me—to look for survivors.”

  “How could I refuse the lady?” the kaiser asked. “I am much like Siegfried.”

  Fatma now noticed the goblin yet perched on his shoulder. It wasn’t sleeping but instead was turned about, observing the battle in the distance. Fatma looked back to Amina.

  “You’re a healer?”

  “Mmm,” the woman replied, concentrating. “My grandfather’s talent passed to me.”

  “Then she’ll live?”

  “God willing. But I’ll need more. Jenne!” At her call, a tall shadow filled with intoxicating scents loomed up behind her. No, not a shadow. A figure with a stark chalk-white face whose silver eyes stared down impassively. Amina said something, and her Qareen flicked out a curled black tongue—bearing a smooth marbled stone at the tip. Amina plucked it like a piece of fruit before prying open Siti’s mouth, and stuffing the stone inside.

  “A gris-gris,” she explain
ed, massaging Siti’s throat. “Much like a bezoar. Once swallowed, the healing is prompt.”

  No sooner had she spoken than Siti’s eyes flew open. In a blur she was in human form—sputtering and coughing. She looked around befuddled before reaching into her mouth to pull out the stone. “Who put a rock down my throat?” she wheezed.

  Fatma breathed in relief, squeezing Siti’s hand tight.

  Amina took the stone back, handing it off to the Qareen—who promptly swallowed it. “The gris-gris was needed to draw you back to your human self. Your djinn side needs healing.”

  “No.” Siti attempted to stand. “I need to be able to fight—”

  “Half-djinn are common enough in my country,” Amina insisted, pushing her back down with a firm hand. “The old great King Samanguru was claimed to be a half immortal, able to supposedly transform into a whirlwind and call forth an army of ants.”

  “You have a hidden army of ants you want to tell me about?” Fatma asked lightly, unable to hold back the giddiness at seeing Siti conscious and speaking again.

  The woman scowled up at Amina. “What’s your point?”

  “That I’m familiar enough with your kind to know how to treat you. Make do with this mortal body. Let your djinn side rest.” She looked to Fatma and Abigail. “As for you two.”

  There were no stones for them. Amina only laid her hands on their skin, and Fatma felt her body fill with warmth, her bruises and aches dulling.

  “How wonderful,” Abigail mused, gingerly touching the skin where a gash had closed on her forehead. “Healer, could you do something about…” She lifted the stump of her hand hopefully. Amina began to inspect the injury, but Jenne let out a sharp hiss.

  “Your voice,” the Qareen spoke, silver eyes flashing and scent now bitter. “Jenne remembers the Mistress of Djinn. In our head. Calling. Insisting”

  Amina dropped Abigail’s wrist in alarm. “The imposter!”

  Wilhelm’s eyes widened. “An Englishwoman! Behind all these troubles? Is that not interesting, Yakov?” He inspected Abigail anew, and Fatma thought his smile hid traces of admiration.

  There was a loud booming from the battle, and all eyes turned in its direction—where dazzling lights and sheets of flame lit up the night.

  “If we ever do have a war,” Wilhelm declared, “I only hope it is as glorious!”

  “Not today,” Amina snapped, standing. She turned to Fatma, eyes curious. “You never told me precisely which agency you worked for. But finding you here, it must be one that deals with … all this. Sometime, we’ll have to meet again, and maybe you’ll tell me more about your government job. But now, there are others in the rubble to find. I pray you’re able to stop this evil, agent. Trust in God.”

  Lifting the hem of her gallabiyah, she hurried off, her two attendants following. Fatma watched them disappear into the dust haze—a West African princess, the German kaiser, and a Russian general, wandering the broken Abdeen Palace on this very strange night in Cairo.

  Siti took a moment to struggle to her feet, standing but unsteady. “Tell me we have a plan.”

  Fatma turned to find her eyes locked on the battle of immortals. “The plan was to not let this happen.” They cupped their ears as a thunderclap rang out from some djinn magic.

  “They’ll destroy the city if we don’t stop them.”

  “You can’t stop them,” Abigail put in. She’d come to stand beside them, bedraggled but still managing to sound haughty. “I held them. These Nine Lords. For a brief glorious moment. It was like trying to hold a star.” She turned to Siti. “Thank you for saving me. Quite gracious of you.”

  Siti cut the woman a murderous glare and one of her feline smiles. “Nothing gracious about it. I almost shot you in the face, remember? Djinn have long memories. Hold even longer grudges. And you went and burned yourself into our memories. The life you’re about to lead, the feeling of being hunted, always looking over your shoulder, unable to escape djinn who can enter even your dreams. I wasn’t about to have you miss all that—Abbie.”

  For once, Abigail truly looked ashen.

  Siti turned away, then frowned. “Is someone calling you?”

  Fatma listened. Someone was calling her name. Shouting it. She searched the dark to find the source. Making her way toward them was Hadia! She came at a run, or as well as she could through the rubble. Her clothes and face were smudged in dust, but she still looked a sight better than they did. When she reached them she clutched Fatma in an embrace.

  “Alḥamdulillāh! They said the palace had fallen! I thought were you under it!”

  Fatma didn’t bother to say that, in fact, she had been. “How did you get here?”

  “Onsi got one of the police wagons working! We sped all the way!” Her gaze flicked to Abigail, then her missing hand. “Guessing I missed a few things?”

  Fatma caught her up, watching her jaw go slack.

  “The Nine Ifrit Lords!” Hadia gazed at the fiery giants wreaking havoc on the city. “Inspector Aasim came with us. He’s briefed the police and Ministry. They say the king’s going to call out the army—”

  She hadn’t finished before the ground shook in a tremor. It stopped. Then shook again. And again. In succession. Fatma was set to ask what now, when she saw it.

  Another giant strode the streets of Cairo. This one made not of fire but something dark and rippling. Water! It stood as tall as the Ifrit Lords, shaped like a slender man, with legs capable of great strides and arms that hung past where knees should have been. Its liquid body swirled and crashed in upon itself, setting off unending waves and eddies.

  “What new horror is this?” Hadia whispered.

  “Not a horror,” Siti said in wonder. “This is Jann work!”

  Jann? Fatma had read texts claiming the most ancient Marid once dwelled deep beneath the seas. But even they had not been able to so manipulate the elements—not on such a scale.

  “Where did they even get all that water?” Hadia asked.

  “The Nile,” Fatma reasoned. “Where else?”

  As they watched, the Ifrit Lords turned at this new challenge.

  The first to meet his enemy swung a burning blade. The water giant moved surprisingly fast, with the speed of a rushing river. It lifted a lengthy arm like a trunk, rolling it in an undulating wave. When it struck the blade, the flames died. The water passed through the Ifrit’s arm, and where it touched, fires snuffed out, and molten liquid cooled to black rock behind erupting gouts of steam. The Ifrit Lord roared in anger or perhaps pain, staggering back. Another took his place only to have one of the whipping arms wash away a molten eye. A third was sent crashing to his knees when two sweeps of the water giant’s limbs slashed his legs—quenching their flame.

  For a brief moment, Fatma dared to hope.

  It died when the Ifrit King strode forward, the smoldering mace balanced over a shoulder. He chanted something that thundered, and his body burst into fresh flames—shifting from red, to orange, then a bright blue, before blazing a fierce white.

  When the water giant struck out again, water met that white heat—and sizzled. Towering clouds of angry steam rose up, so that nothing could be made out. When it cleared, the Ifrit King stood unharmed. The water giant, though, looked … less. The Ifrit King this time swung his mace, striking the water giant hard enough that it stumbled, rippling from the impact. In moments the Nine Lords surrounded it, hammering down their fiery weapons in savage blows.

  “I hope the army gets here soon,” Hadia whispered.

  Fatma eyed the doomed water giant, wondering what would become of the many Jann who had summoned it. If their champion faltered, and broke, how far would that water flood?

  “It won’t be enough,” she said, hating to speak the words. But it was truth. These Ifrit Lords wouldn’t be stopped by the djinn they once ruled. Or by machines djinn helped men build. She stared up to the gaping portal—still visible against the night. The moment that doorway had opened, this battle was lost.

 
; “No, it won’t be enough,” someone agreed.

  She spun at the guttural voice, searching the dark and landing on a figure squatting in the rubble. He stood as she made him out, detaching from the shadows in a rustle of familiar brown robes. She couldn’t have stopped the gasp escaping her lips if she’d tried.

  “Ahmad!” Siti exclaimed.

  The head priest of the Cult of Sobek, and the claimed living embodiment of the ancient Nile god on Earth, waved a clawed hand. Abigail scrambled back, as if from a nightmare.

  “Have you been there all this time?” Siti asked.

  “Not all this time. Well, most of the time. Okay, the whole time. Is that also creepy?”

  “Yes, Ahmad,” Siti sighed. “It’s all creepy.”

  “Malesh.” He threw back his hood. “Hard to remember to think like people.”

  Fatma grimaced at the sight of his crocodilian snout. The man was a far way from being people. One clawed hand produced the silver scarab beetle lighter from his robes, the other a pack of Nefertaris. Plucking out a thin cigarette, he attempted to hold it in his toothy maw—giving up after three tries.

  “Going to miss these,” he muttered.

  “Ahmad,” Fatma said. “Why aren’t you gone?”

  He looked at her with a distant gaze.

  “Ahmad?”

  He blinked, returning. “Agent. My mind is at times hazy now. I was going, yes. To Sobek’s kingdom that calls me. To swim the river. South, to the old temples. To be one with the entombed god. But I came back, to help. To stop them.” He looked to the battle, where the water giant had been forced to its knees. “I have something. Something I took.” He fished into the packet of Nefertaris again, drawing out not a cigarette but a small unassuming gold ring.

  Fatma’s heart skipped. The Seal of Sulayman!

  “Thief!” Abigail screamed. Her fear seemed diminished at sight of the ring. “You stole what’s mine! I will have it back!” She reached out, but snatched back her fingers at a crocodilian hiss. “Monster! Did you eat my hand?”

  “You took her,” Ahmad growled. “You stole her from me. Be thankful I did not tear you to pieces.” He turned away. “Besides, I’m not a cannibal. Your hand stank of rot. So I tossed it.”